


Something Borch Would Say

by BloodFromTheThorn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, Witcher - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24153637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodFromTheThorn/pseuds/BloodFromTheThorn
Summary: Jaskier heads for the coast, and very carefully does not think why.Tag for 1x06 Rare Species.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Something Borch Would Say

**Author's Note:**

> Contains references to both the TV show and The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt game.

Jaskier heads for the coast. He doesn’t even realise that’s what he’s doing at first, so lost in the mantra of  _ getawaygetaway _ that he barely even glances at the world around him until it’s been more than a week and he finally notices his feet have been taking him west. Once he does, he vehemently decides not to consider why that was the direction his mind had chosen to take him in and just keeps walking. It’s slow going, even on horseback, but he doesn’t rush any of it, contented enough to just let himself wander with the only markers of his passing the occasional stop in settlements along the ways to buy supplies.

He doesn’t sing, not once. For the first time in his life, he finds he just hasn’t the stomach for it. 

He ends up reaching the sea just east of the Koviri border and from there it seems like a simple continuation to follow the ragged coastline westwards towards Port Vanis. Out of the mountains, the roads have steadily grown busier and he finds himself longing to get lost in the crowd, become just a passing face of no real note to anyone. He’d never thought he’d see the day where he would actively be dodging opportunities to impress a gaggle of adoring fans; Geralt would-

Well. That didn’t matter now. 

It isn’t until he reaches Kovir that he finally acknowledges the question that has been dogging his steps for so many long, lonely miles: what now? He’d told Geralt that they should ‘do what pleases them’ but in the cold light of a Koviri dawn, he had no idea what that meant for him. Settling down in Port Vanis? Unlikely, although it was as good an idea for now as he was going to get. After that? Somehow the idea of just trailing around the world without any particular goal in mind felt… unfulfilling somehow, knowing that there would be no more chance encounters with someone who genuinely meant something to him. 

Maybe he’d run into Yarpen again some day. That could be something to look forward to - the dwarf was good for a drink if nothing else and he’d seemed to have a good heart in his chest; Jaskier could imagine whiling away a few days in his company from time to time. It might not be the same - might not be  _ enough _ \- but it was something. Anything. 

By the time he reaches Port Vanis, he’s regained his voice if not his enthusiasm, though even he isn’t truly sure if it’s a recovery or simply the steady lightening of his coin purse pushing him on; either way, he spends his days and evenings charming the masses from tavern fireplaces to city squares. It’s not the Queen’s Court of Cintra, of course, but it has simple charms all of its own and he makes enough money to keep himself comfortable in the hustle and bustle. 

He doesn’t sing about Borch or the golden dragon. Whenever he tries to put his pen to paper to let the story of it flow out of him, he hears a rough, enraged voice echoing in his skull and it drowns out any melody that might ever have taken shape.

Wanderlust creeps back in eventually, as it always does, and he goes willingly. He overhears a ship captain discussing his plans to weigh anchor for Cidaris the next day and decides that it must be a sign - within an hour he’s made his appeal to the captain and is readying himself for the voyage. He’s never been much of a fan of sailing, but he finds he prefers it to the idea of walking back down the road he had come on. If there is anything he needs now, it is to be moving  _ forwards _ , not back.

And in the end, he is fortunate - the ship’s journey is blessed by good winds and calm seas, and they dock in Cidaris a full three days before they were expected. Unfortunately, that is where his good luck runs out; within five hours of being in the city he hears a rumour that a witcher has been wandering the countryside nearby. They haven’t come to Cidaris and appear to be squirrelled away in the woodlands somewhere, but no one has any clue where they plan on heading next. 

There is no doubt in his mind that it’s Geralt, even though the rumours bear no name or physical description. Witchers are sparse in the world as it is, and it’s only been a few weeks since they were in Caingorn together. Besides, his fortune has always been a fickle thing and he sees no reason why this time should be any different. 

The thing that hurts the most, he finds, is that in days gone by, he would have rejoiced at the news. Geralt meant adventure, meant new songs, meant more money, meant  _ excitement _ . The man could be a total ass at times, but Jaskier had genuinely enjoyed his company and even when their adventures hadn’t turned out so well for them, he’d still been glad to have had the experience. He hadn’t realised until Caingorn that Geralt didn’t feel the same. 

But none of that mattered now. He knew that. Easier to just not think about it, to string his lute and sing his songs and ignore the tug under his ribs that bids him to find the witcher as he always had done before. He would not run from Cidaris if Geralt arrived, but his days of purposefully seeking him out were long gone. He shuddered to remember the times he had travelled so far out of his way just to ‘conveniently’ stumble across him, or when he had greatly overstayed his welcome in a town because he’d heard a rumour that a witcher was heading in that direction; he’d always assumed Geralt’s warm eyes when they ran into each other was a silent acknowledgement of his pleasure at seeing Jaskier again, or perhaps appreciating the effort he’d gone to to reconnect. 

Even now, he wasn’t entirely sure how he could possibly have been so wrong. 

Perhaps it was age getting to him, or simply wishful thinking. His life was a rich one, full of simple pleasures, but he had always been someone who chased the future in front of them, dove at new opportunities and relished whatever diversion they could offer. His conquests might not always end favourably, but that was rather the point of living, wasn’t it? There was little point in trying to regret something that was as fundamental to his being as breathing.

In time, more rumours came - news of Cintra fallen and Calanthe dead - and Jaskier couldn’t help but put his feet back on the road. It felt wrong, somehow, to linger when there was such darkness growing in the south, though he knew he could offer no true aid to anyone. He still had to  _ try. _

He heard nothing more of the witcher in the woods. 

He only gets as far as the Adalette river before the messenger catches up with him. How on Earth they managed to find him he has no idea - it wasn’t like he’d told anyone of his travel plans before leaving Cidaris - but he accepts the letter all the same and pays the boy handsomely for his efforts. The note itself is something of a surprise - a summons to hear the Last Will and Testament of Alonso Wiley in Novigrad. He’d heard of Whoreson Senior, of course, but he didn’t recall them ever meeting; it made no sense that the man would have left him anything, let alone the lease to an establishment within the city. 

Regardless, it was something to head towards. What else did he have? He well knew that he’d been doing nothing but marking time since that fateful day in Caingorn - he’d spent every day since trying desperately to forget all about it and had failed so utterly that he still couldn’t bring himself to remember the words that had been thrown in his face without something cold and dark overtaking his lungs and pinning him to the floor. 

Geralt had been his friend and his companion for two decades. There was no erasing that, no forgetting. But now, it was  _ over _ . He had to accept that. Perhaps Novigrad would hold the means to do so. It had to be worth a shot, at the very least. 

With a heavy sigh, he cast a long look at the crystal waters of the Adalette, then spun on his heel and started the long trek north. 

**Author's Note:**

> This has no purpose but to get it out of my head. 
> 
> If you've not played the game, the note at the end is a reference to something in that. Jaskier inherits a brothel from Alonso that he converts into a cabaret called the Rosemary & Thyme.


End file.
